Ashes to Ashes
by BarkWoofBark
Summary: This is the untold story of the Dark Days. In the books, it was kept brief. The rebels destroyed, order regained by the government, followed by the creation of the games. The war that started it all entails so much more. This is the first rebellion as told by an unlikely heroine, torn from the luxurious Capitol life and plunged into the heart of battle.


_**Everything was**_ **_Bright._**

"You look dashing, baby," my father cooed, giving me a loving peck on the top of my styled curls and then moving his lips to meet my mother's cheek.

Mother smiled faintly as she gathered my shoulders in her hands, spinning us both to face the framed mirror on the wall. My dress was pale pink, adorned with bows and lace and other silly, useless things. My hair hung in honey-blonde ringlets down to my shoulder blades. And my eyes. An atrocity. Swirling grey-blue, flecked with gold, and slits for pupils. Feline. Inhuman. And at the time I thought I looked beautiful.

"A real _cat_astrophe," Remus said with a grin, the curling black tattoos that spanned from his eyebrows to his cheekbones fluctuating with his muscle movement. He, too, had gotten an alteration on our shared 13th birthday. We'd begged our parents to no end. Everybody had Alts, after all. Disfiguring oneself was all the rage.

I glared at him, but not with any real fury. No, the fury would come if he ruined my night. I sent a dismissive glance his way and adjusted my necklaces.

It was the night of my parent's annual charity ball, the party of the year for the upper class who lived in our region. Mostly it was for my father to keep an eye out on his coworkers; that was how it was when you worked for the government. Lots of backstabbing. Lots of secrets. We looked our absolute best. Even Remus looked admittedly dashing.

"Be nice, dear," Mother chided him gently, although it was clear her mind was elsewhere. She released me and went to answer the door just as the doorbell chimed. The back of her red dress was torn, curiously so. I nearly raised my voice to inform her when my father cleared his throat, hand falling form the communicator lodged in his ear.

"What's wrong?" I asked halfheartedly, gathering my hair in a wavy ponytail, turning to admire my eyes in the mirror. Selfishly I sent a silent prayer that nothing would ruin this night. It was going to be perfect. Last year this night had been good. Now I was a full-fledged teenager. Important. A dark, almost sad look passed over his face as he glanced at me in the reflection, meeting my gaze. However, the look was fleeting, only lasting a few seconds. He merely shook his head, and turned away.

The night passed in a blur with golden walls, crystal chandeliers, and exquisite dishes. There was much dancing, spinning round and round until I pulled myself to the side and merely watched the more sure-footed adults navigate the complicated ball. Eventually my parents and several other high-ranking officials and their spouses swirled around in the center of the floor, people cheering as they performed. I suddenly got the feeling that I was extremely insignificant. I did not matter, here. I craved to be the center of attention, however this was my parent's success, not my own. I was merely a fixture. Remus appeared aside me, smirk on his lips. "What's the matter sourpuss?" He cut me a sideways glance. I didn't realize my lips were pursed in a frown. "Cat got your tongue?"

"You're not funny," I snipped, crossing my arms. He launched into an argument about exactly how funny he was. Which, by his standards, seemed to be very much so. "Sure, sure hotshot," I said, ruffling his hair, which was a great task considering he was eight inches taller than me. "I'm going to go get some fresh air." No sooner did I walk out the front door did the bombs go off.

* * *

_**Until the Lights went out.**_

"Winnie, get up."

My eyes open, gray reality flooding over the three-year-old, candy-colored memory. My senses refuse adjusting to the present, still feeling the nuance of the fabric, the sweet scent of my washed hair ticking my nose. My father's face appears in my line of sight, although he looks much more weathered in this image. Lines creasing his skin like folds in supple leather. A jagged, oozing bandaged that needs changing obscures the right, bottom quarter of his face. A smile touches his lips, although it does not reach his lifeless eyes. So very different than my graceful, dancing man in the remembrance.

"What?" I snap irritably. The present is nearly unbearable. Back then I had the world in my hand; we lived in a large house with a green lawn with a fountain and a view of the town square. Now I have no home, unless you were to count the rebels who opened their dwelling to us for the cause. My father and I lived with Mother and Remus. They were killed the night of the party. There were no bodies to bury. I've seen the districts. I know why we're fighting, and that it's with good reason. But I miss that life where I didn't know the difference between wrong and right. Not that I'd admit it to anybody.

The only thing left I have are my eyes. Although these I'd rip out of my skull if I could afford to be blind. Dad promises that as soon as this war is won and every person in the country can afford a doctor, he'll have them returned to their natural state. But I don't trust him. This is the man that killed my brother.

"We're moving today. You'll want to pack up, get something to eat, and then be on the craft by eight," he tells me, and although I can tell he wants something, as the man is here in-person, I ignore him and slip out of the tent. I'm hit with the salty atmosphere of District Four. My father is General of Four. He had been a part of a giant order to overthrow the Capital, manned by district thirteen's intelligence. His plan was crafty. Get information. Bomb his own house with important political leaders inside. Make his escape as a thought-dead man. I suspect I was supposed to die in the bombing.

The company doesn't get to return to the beautiful seaside territory for long. In fact, we're only back to pick up the new recruits and deliver them to Command, where the bulk of the army waits to scale the mountains. All thirteen districts have waging battles, but the real fight will be at the Capitol itself.

They don't tell us the grueling details, but from what I can gather and steal from my father's devices, it doesn't look good. The war has waged a little over two years. Our army is huge with so many willing people from the Districts wanting to fight, but most are bumbling fools who can only handle simple guns. I, myself am a bumbling fool who can only handle a simple gun. Additionally, there are thirteen districts waging their own battles for independence. Nobody is free, yet. We're all in this together, too. If one fails then we all fail.

I wrap a towle around my neck, although that helps little to stave off the humidity. Despite the moisture, I love it here. It's an extraordinary sight to see. The waves, the seabirds. It's so real and warm, seemingly a world away from the fighting. The corners of my lips pull downward as I spot the fires in the distance, in the heart of the District. More like a mile away, then. They never seem to stop, anywhere we go. I have learned that humans must ruin all beauty.

"Soldier Cinders," a voice behind me chirps, and I sigh and turn on my booted heels. The young woman hands me my meal ticket, which I take and go to collect, standing in a line of immature, inexperienced militia. Breakfast is gruel with peas and some sort of fish. Always fish. I sigh again, sitting down to eat besides a boy no older than fifteen. I'm not much older than he, and yet I can't help but thinking how small he looks.

Suddenly, he looks at me. "You're the General's daughter." This isn't a question. I don't reply, only spooning a chunk of whitefish into my mouth. It's bland and salty with a texture that threatens to make me squeamish. I may love the District but I can't say much for the diet. He continues to look at me with big green eyes, his black hair falling over his face. Another figure appears, playfully slapping the young boy on the back on his head.

"And you're an stupid barnacle," says the older kid, nearer to my age than the boy's. "Have you any manners?" The younger shoots back an insult so thick with an accent I don't understand. These District Four's have a way of speaking so different from my own I feel alienated most of the time around them. I don't even glance over at them, unable and unwilling to follow. I pick up my tray and toss it, leaving the males behind.

It's seven fifteen when I begin to pack. A detect a presence beside me, shoving weaponry and supplies into my pack. My father is the only one I can think of that would be helping me. Going through so many groups of soldiers over the last twenty four months has left me with no friends. People are intimidated by me. But how I look. How I talk. I'm a human being, fighting for their cause, but because of where I've come from I am not accepted. They've given me the title, but that's the full extent of it. My father has done something for them. He is in. But I am not.

My time since my new life has been one of solitude, hovering on the edges, contrasting so painfully from how it used to be. They may call me soldier, but I'm not one. I'm merely a girl who fighting for the rebels without really fighting. Again, I suspect I was intended to die, so my father could lead and not have to bother with raising a child. But I'm still here, sometimes looking for ways to help. Occasionally someone will try to befriend me, but then they have to move or just end up dead. I don't know why these people approach me. I'm nothing to look at- I've since chopped off all my hair into a short soldier's do, and my pupils are disturbing. I've turned into an antisocial monster.

When I turn my head it's not my father. It's the boy from before, the older one. I raise my eyebrows at him, tugging my pack towards me. "Soldier Virgil," he introduces himself although I didn't ask. He's lanky and lean with broad shoulders, auburn hair and emerald green eyes. He doesn't look like a soldier. He does, however, look like a swimmer with the muscles, but the underfed signs in his cheeks and ribs. Fisherman's son, I presume, but don't say it allowed. It seems they're all fisherman's sons, here. I shake my head and turn back to packing.

"What? What did I do?" he asked curiously in a bright tone.

"Don't start," I growl in an unfriendly tone. I know I'm being unpleasant but that's all I ever am anymore. Capitol girl with frills and lace is gone, has been for a while. I try to sound less awful, but fail. "Don't reel me like one of your fish." And then he surprises me by ripping my bag out of my hands.

I expect him to do what everyone does when I'm unfriendly. To apologize and back away, trying again later occationally. But fish boy meets my eyes directly, doesn't offer any apologies, and says, "I used to live in the Capitol."

My eyes meet his. I'm confused. A handful of people that travel with my father are from the Capitol, some tailing kids. But I don't care who they are. I take my bag back. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. So I know."

"Know what?"

"What it's like. Why you're like that." I don't reply, but I feel a pang of anger. Nobody knows what it's like to go from such richness to such poverty. Knowing that you're previous way of life was unfair and wrong, but to miss it nevertheless. I turn back to packing, shoving a handgun into the pocket of the pack. His green eyes try to meet mine. "I'm Moray."

"Like the fish. Cute." My voice is full of cynicism.

"Eel," Moray corrects. "You're Winifred." He says. Again, not a question, like the other boy. I've lived here awhile. I expect their directness.

"That's not my name," I bark. I zip the pack closed and stand up, glaring down at him. Although when Moray stands up, I'm glaring up at him. He doesn't ask what my name is, and for that I'm glad. I'm able to retreat without any further conversation. It's been a long while since I've exchanged that much with another being.

I stomp away and board the hovercraft twenty minutes early, although I discover there are many others aboard, including dear old dad. While waiting I stow my bag and find a seat, fastening a communicator in my ear and not talking to anyone. It's standard procedure. I won't be in any fight. I never have been. I'm always stuck in the skies, watching blobs fire and hack at each other on the ground. We aren't headed to a fight now, but it wouldn't be the first time we're redirected, the mass of young militia needed elsewhere rather than at the command base.

The hovercraft purrs as it comes to life, and then shoves off the ground. I catch sight of the flaming district, where rebels and Capitol forces alike play firearm tag in the smoldering wreckage. It's like that everywhere in this forsaken country. And then the craft bolts forwards, the beautiful ocean and contrasting flames disappear within minutes.


End file.
